


Convocate

by Celandine



Series: Dakin/Irwin [24]
Category: History Boys (2006)
Genre: Drama, Ficlet, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-06-17
Updated: 2008-06-17
Packaged: 2017-10-12 08:24:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/122884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celandine/pseuds/Celandine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dakin meets Scripps for lunch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Convocate

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Thevina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thevina/gifts), [westernredcedar](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=westernredcedar).



Dakin turns the stem of the wine glass in his fingers, contemplating its fragility. A drop of wine splashed when the waiter set the glass down and now stains the crisp white tablecloth in a way that annoys Dakin unreasonably. Perhaps it is in part because he is not comfortable here, although he is the one who chose the restaurant.

He glances at his watch. Two minutes after noon. He can't really call Scripps late yet, but he cranes his neck to look toward the entrance nonetheless.

At six minutes after the hour Scripps walks in, murmurs for a moment with the seating hostess, who leads him over to the table. He swings a bag easily from one shoulder, no doubt full of his notebooks and cameras and whatever else it is he needs as a journalist.

"Dakin," he says, and holds out his hand for Dakin to shake.

Dakin half-stands to do so, nodding at the empty seat. "Sit down, man."

As he regards Dakin from across the table Scripps's face bears an odd expression, not quite a smile, with one eyebrow lifted. He is wearing a tweedy brown jacket and a banded-collar shirt, no tie. There is a nick on his left jawbone where he evidently cut himself shaving that morning. The sight is oddly reassuring; Dakin breathes more easily and reaches for his menu.

The ordering is done quickly, and they are left facing each other. Twenty years makes the few feet of table between them seem enormous.

"It was rather a surprise to get your message," says Scripps, his eyes steady on Dakin's face as he sips his drink. A beer. Dakin wishes he had chosen that instead of this bloody wine.

"You're writing a piece on Irwin," Dakin says, as if that were an explanation.

He expects Scripps to ask how he knew that, but Scripps merely says, "Yes," and takes another drink.

Dakin takes a drink himself. This is ridiculous. He tries to think now why it seemed a good idea to get in touch again after so long. Irwin suggested it, that's why. He stares at the sandy hairs on Scripps's wrist.

"I live with him." He keeps his voice neutral.

"I know," says Scripps, and Dakin looks up in astonishment.

Scripps shrugs, the thick wool of his jacket moving stiffly. "As I was on my way out after the interview, I heard your voice."

So much for his care in removing all the photographs of himself from the living room, then. Dakin clears his throat.

"I see."

Their starters arrive just then, and they eat for several minutes in silence. Scripps breaks it.

"How long?"

"Nearly three years now," Dakin replies.

"Did you ring him up out of the blue the way you did me?"

"Yes," says Dakin. "I saw one of his programmes and thought, why not?"

"Didn't leave a wife and kids for him, did you?"

The question is offhand, but it reminds Dakin again that Scripps is a journalist, that he makes his living from asking such questions.

"No. I never married, and I didn't happen to have a girlfriend at that time," he says.

"I can't say I'm surprised." Scripps cocks his head.

"Why not?"

"You always got what you wanted in the end, didn't you?"

" _Did_ I always get what I wanted?" Dakin asks thoughtfully.

"You certainly seemed to. You had Fiona back then."

"Not Tom though."

"But you have him now." Scripps's fork clatters just a little too loudly on his plate, and Dakin realises that Scripps is envious -- of him or of Irwin or perhaps a little of both, Dakin isn't sure. Scripps has always felt this way.

And Dakin could have known that, if he'd wanted to. One or two of Scripps's comments about Irwin, back in school, make sense in retrospect. And the other -- had that been what all the God stuff was about, the whole time?

Dakin looks at Scripps, really _looks_ at him, and Scripps looks back with an air of rueful resignation.

"Don't worry about it," Scripps says. "I never expected anything else."

With a slow nod, Dakin reaches for the salt, sprinkles a little on his potatoes, more for something to do than because they need any.

They are able to talk more easily then, although the snippets of lives they exchange add up to only the roughest of sketches, and it is memories that bind them. Still, those are a bond, and one that Dakin realises he's missed.

"We're having a drinks party a week from Friday," he says as they are each counting out bills to pay the cheque. "6.30, it starts. If you're free?"

Scripps raises his eyebrows and gives Dakin the sunny grin that he had almost forgotten. "Should I bring someone?"

"Only if you have someone to bring, it doesn't matter." Dakin feels his own lips turn up in response. "There will be all sorts there."

Scripps nods. "I'll come. Thanks."

Dakin swallows the last sip of his wine and rises to go. "We'll look forward to it."


End file.
